Blood and Guts
by Konerok Hadorak
Summary: What words could I use to prepare you for what you are about to read? What convoluted entanglement of letters could be compiled in a such a way as to warn you properly of the things that lie within? There are truths mere men were not meant to know... and the facets of those truths too wonderful and frightening to comprehend. Today, the gods walk among us.
1. Chapter 1

****A/N: How many of you guessed I'd be dabbling in Berserkdom, eh? And to mix Bloodborne in at the same time! I'm actually quite proud of what I've made so far and I'm enjoying working on this particular fic as I go along. I've always been fascinated by Bloodborne,and by spiritual parentage, H.P. Lovecraft. Lovecraft in a medieval setting (i.e. Berserk) is just a natural next step. I will admit, I'm a latecomer when it comes to Berserk, but I have most assuredly fallen in love with every part of it.****

 ** **Except Griffith. Fuck Griffith.  
****

 **Though I find his example an intriguing study of the pursuit of power and one's willingness to throw away all that is good for the sake of a dream that one values even higher than friends and family. There's a potential psychology thesis in there somewhere...**

 **Nevertheless, without any further procrastination, I pull back the curtain for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _"I have never seen the sea before. My mistress spoke of it. She said it leads to the astral world. Beautiful, graceful, ominous, and dreadful. A spectacle that touches everyone's heartstrings in such a way. Such a place must be connected to the astral world, she said. All I did at the time was imagine it, but… standing at the seaside like this, I understand what she meant, for the first time. I'm now in a place I don't recognize. Though it's been but several days since then, it feels like I've come a very long way. I've set out upon a journey without return."_**  
 _ **  
\- Schierke, burgeoning Witch.**_

* * *

Rest.

Calm.

Meridian flows of time trickle past like streams of crystal. The air is clear and gentle, the flowers that caress my body bend and bow beneath my form, but never do they wilt. Clouds drift above, beyond, and below around me, white as snow, yet colored by unseen fire and unbidden shadows. Behind them, the moon hangs quiet, its light filtered through a canopy; above me, atop the hill I rest on, a white and green leafed tree stands, its great gnarled branches stretching far, wind from the vastness rustling through its foliage. Around me circles a wall of stone etched with innumerable distinctive names, each one more memorable than the last.

This is my world. A quiet, peaceful world both infinite and infinitesimal. I have no wants. I have no needs. My will is, and it is calm.

And yet…

A shuddering… a shifting of the wings so minute others would not have known. But I know, for all is as I will here. Negligible minutiae is as to me a noxious fume of sour desire and unseen law. A thing unaware of me impinging upon my place.

A thing like me.

My eyes stir, opening like fluttering drapes that frame a windowsill. So long had it been since I've been disturbed. Must I again recount my place? Ambition wafts like foul odors; like an unwelcome heat; like a misplaced step.

I'd corrected many an ambitious one in my time. Most had simply been unaware of me, such as I am. Or rather, such as I prefer to be. But revelation is an unfortunate necessity if my will is to be abided. Perhaps that is a fragment of my older self; a sliver of a creature so old and insignificant that even my perpetual memory can barely recall. Most tolerate each other's desires; conflict is not wanton between us. But me? I do not stay for much. I suppose I am what "most" implies; an exception to the majority.

Well, I've always been abnormal. An aberration.

Something else… a faint tingling of my ears. The palest vibration of the air… an ancient memory recounted. Sound. A familiar sound.

The echoing… the repeat of its high pitch, stalked by an echo decidedly more profound than its precursor.

The ringing of a bell.

The starless blue firmament of twilight above beckons me. An unconscious thought establishes my form, and I stand. About me, an energy stirs; an action taken; an ancient stagnancy disturbed. Little eyes, pale faces, looking at me, questioning… quieting.

A rhythmic rustling of fauna to my side as I gaze beyond. A shared understanding belied the inefficiency of words; the ineptness of communication.

I step forward, and the sky embraces me.

* * *

" _It is a relic of an ancient place, older than either of us by eons,"_ he had once told her, placing the unassuming trinket into her cupped palms. She'd laughed at him, making light of the gravity in his voice.

" _My, how old it must be indeed when even the primordial consider it antiquated."_

He need not scold her for her mirth, nor council her on its value, for she was shrewd beyond her peers.

" _Ne'er have I seen it's like in all my days,"_ she continued, examining its etchings and structure with keen eyes.

" _Nor will you again, for it is the last of its kind. But it is by far the most powerful."_

Her eyes turned from it to him, the answer to her question unasked already on his lips.

 _"It is a beacon… to call forth something great."_

Her expression shifted, her face darkening softly as an evil image came to mind. _"You mean… one of_ them? _"_

" _No. They are young. This… it is…"_ He faltered, unsure how to describe what he had not seen; only supposed. _"Eldritch."_

She smiled at him gently. _"Am I to keep it then, as I do all the things you bring me? My home is not a storehouse you know."_

Her humor was lost, for she was certain any semblance of amusement had long since been driven out of him. Still, he had once been an ordinary man, and there was no reason she should not treat him as she might any other.

" _Study it. Learn from it, if you can. And if not, lock it away. I have no use for such an artifact."_

That had been hundreds of years ago, and yet nothing had she gleaned from her time spent investigating the thing. Had she not known the ghastly rider she called friend better, she might have thought it all a practical joke. As it was, she placed it under lock and key, put away out of sight and mind, for that which she could not even begin to understand concerned her greatly. Though she herself was a humble witch, many others considered her the greatest practitioner living; at the very least for the sake of their beliefs she had a reputation to uphold.

But the bauble confounded her. Inscribed with an alphabet she'd never seen, with a dialect she'd never come close to deciphering, and designed with the purpose of summoning something she had no manner of understanding. She wondered if perhaps the creature it called for was even listening at all; she'd had a scare once, when her beloved student Schierke had knocked it over during her singular incursion into her little vault of nether items. It clattered against the wood floor, but it never made a sound.

However, that implied to Fiora that it perhaps worked similarly to a behelit; only _intent_ could bring whatever it was linked to into their presence. And any relation to a behelit concerned her with understandable severity.

But now was not the time to be hesitant. The fires burned brightly around her, the nauseating heat countered only by her affinity for magic. Outside, a battle raged. Guts, Schierke, her dear knight friend, and all the others were fighting.

And Guts… poor, brave Guts who now bore the Berserker armor… But she would not condemn someone to use it maliciously. After all, her faith was in Schierke. Even now, with her beloved student railing for help amidst the confusion and chaos of battle, she smiled at the image of the girl in her mind's eye.

If the Hawk had sent minions of Zodd's caliber, she would not be leaving this place alive… not that she intended to anyway. But it was upon the thing in front of her that her attention dwelled. Known to be hasty she was not, but if it truly was such a powerful artifact, even in these flames it would not be destroyed. And she could not let it fall into the wrong hands. Her only desire was that it might be taken away from the world. Away from those who might abuse it's power. Perhaps intent went a long way in its use; she'd never managed to find out much about it.

It sat on the table in front of her, the sounds of battle audible through the roaring of the flames. She reached out, plucking it up by its handle. It was such an unassuming thing…

With tentative strokes, she shook the small bell in her grasp.

All other sound seemed to fade upon the advent if its ring. For a moment, she felt no great change.

Then came the response.

Like a mountainous ravine, a sound echoed back. A great bell, low and heavy, intoned from a distant place. A call received.

A sound reached her ears, a low methodical thump of boots, as if treading upon stone pathways, the distinct crunch of gravel beneath steady strides. Closer and closer. And then they stopped.

She could feel it.

As a witch, she was well aware of and in tune with the many spirits that lurked behind the ethereal veil. She'd communed with almost all of them at one point or another, some of them many hundreds of times over the course of her life.

This felt nothing like any of them.

This was different. It was not an element. It was not an aspect. It was something else. A consciousness. A will. A complex organism. A physical presence.

She heard the sound a leathery appendage gripping lightly upon the high back of her chair.

"So, it does work," she said with a light huff of wit. It did not respond. She kept her gaze forward, gazing out of the flames that engulfed her window. "I know not from where you come, nor your intentions. But this," she cupped the little bell in her hands gently, "cannot be left to fall into the wrong hands."

She reached around, offering it to the thing behind her. "Even if you have no other interests here, please, at the very least take it away from this place."

There was a moment's hesitation before a five-fingered gloved hand reached into her field of view and claimed it.

She felt a breath leave her bosom she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "Ah, thank you. It's relieving to know it is returned to its rightful owner."

For a moment, she half expected to hear the return of the footsteps as they faded away into nothing. Instead, she heard the shifting of clothing as a figure came into view beside her.

For the first time in a very long time, Fiora felt a genuine wave of surprise. Though masked, cloaked in a long jacket, gloves, thick pants and leather boots, its eyes were undeniably human. For several long seconds, she stared into them; they were honest human eyes. But there was something else there, a depth she couldn't fully grasp. An age… an understanding.

The figure turned its gaze to peer through the flames, and with a stride, he stepped forward mindless of the blazes, out into the inferno.

Like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Fiora let a sigh escape her lips as his shadow was consumed by the conflagration, a contented smile gracing her lips.

* * *

Zodd felt his blood boil excitedly as he watched on, both he and his beloved nemesis pausing in their bout to witness the black swordsman pressure Grunbeld in a miraculous display of power and tenacity. Of the many apostles sent to claim the head of the old witch, Grunbeld was second only to him. Even in his apostle form, a great crystal fire dragon of enormous size, the human fought on, heedless of pain… heedless of the gushing blood that dripped like waterfalls from between the plates of his black armor.

Of course, a miracle can only be called a miracle if no explanation can be found. But Zodd knew. It was the armor itself, that Berserker's armor that allowed the boy to do what he was. More of a curse than a miracle, the armor was designed to numb the wearer's sense of pain and exhaustion, allowing them to fight to the utter brink of death. But a monster lived inside that armor; a monster that fed on aggression and hatred. He'd seen it before after all.

"My beloved nemesis," Zodd began, an excited disbelief spreading across his bestial face. "Do you plan on making him walk the same path as you? To follow your footsteps down the path to Hell?"

The knight before him, impassive as he always was beneath his skeleton's armor, only stared at him silently, which was in and of itself, perhaps, his answer. Yet Zodd's blood surged, sending his great body all a-tingling. So many great memories of a long gone time resurfaced as he watched the Black Swordsman lay into Grunbeld with an all-too-familiar ferocity.

But with every crashing blast of sound from steel upon steel, Zodd felt his fur bristle uncomfortably. Something else was there, hidden beneath the cacophony. When the human was finally thrown free of the Apostle soldier and a moment of silence was allowed to hang, he could pinpoint the nature of the sound.

It was a bell. A bell of significant size and somber tone rung across the battlefield, each strike of the unseen clapper against the sound bow sending his fur rippling in unease. His eyes searched for the source, yet, somehow, he knew there was none. Even Grunbeld seemed to have taken notice of the bizarre intonation. It wasn't until the crackling of burning timber that accompanied the inflamed tree that centered the sacred interstice gave way to a rhythm.

 _Crack... Crack... Crack..._ announcing at measured intervals. Only then did Zodd's sharp eyes catch the flicker of darkness within the fire. A silhouetted form that grew ever more distinct with each echo. Out of the flames stepped a man. Cloaked all in drab, dirtied leather, a mask hiding his face and a cap hiding his eyes, the only distinction Zodd could make of him was his masculine physique and cool confidence. Not a sliver of fear could he detect from the stranger's posture; Zodd would know, being several centuries old as he was, his battle senses were sharpened to a lethal point.

Nosferatu Zodd. If it wasn't too poor of form to brag, there was no finer predator in the known world.

Grunbeld was the first to speak upon its revelation. "Another surprise? There is no end to them, it seems."

The giant of a former-man stepped forward, still keenly aware of the recovering swordsman not a dozen paces away. "Not that it matters. Our master has ordered the annihilation of this place, and all who guard it are to meet the same fate." The Apostle gestured his fellows behind him, the so-called "War Demons" of the Band of the Hawk. In addition to Grunbeld and Zodd himself, a detachment of Apostles had been dispatched to ensure the Spirit Tree, its little mansion, and its witch mistress all burned to cinders.

"I will deal with the branded one. The rest of you deal with him, and then on to the witch."

The malformed soldiers obeyed with an unhealthy abundance of glee and enthusiasm, even as their forms shifted from humanoid to their monstrous Apostle forms. Save for the fact the there was something unsettling about the newcomer, Zodd might have returned his attention to the Skull Knight, as he was want to do. However, even a brief glance to his rival showed his was not the only interest gained by the interloper.

Even as the entourage of Apostles approached, the man merely batted an eye, acknowledging the small horde, but from Zodd's perspective, that was _all_ he did. No sooner had he been eclipsed by the mosh-pit of demons than there was an explosion of blood and gore, and screams filled the air as body parts were torn from their places.

But to Zodd's surprisingly _lack_ of surprise, the blood, assorted organs and screams were not the stranger's, but his kin. In a display of ferocity and skill, the man tore them apart with only his gloved fists alone.

No... that wasn't quite right. There was something else there as well... Something Zodd couldn't quite discern.

When the last overly-confident and foolish Apostle had been slain, body torn open and heart ripped from its chest, the man, drenched in blood, yet unhindered by its slick texture, once again stood tall. His eyes, the only bit of flesh visible from beneath his garb, peered to and fro as if in recognition. He lifted his head, taking a series of knowing, audible sniffs. When he spoke, it was with a guttural grace and gravity as had never before graced Zodd's ears. It was both pleasing to hear and bespoke of his familiarity with the darker side of the universe.

"Beasts," he said, his accent vaguely Midlandish, yet also not. There was a brief flutter of light from his right hand, and a device appeared therein.

Zodd had to blink to make sure he'd seen correctly. He was familiar with magic; when one lives long enough, they're bound to learn a thing or too. But was this man a sorcerer? No, he doubted it was that simple. Sorcerers fought with magic and spirits and little trinkets, not with their bare fists and _certainly_ not with a ferocity as befitting an Apostle, which Zodd was forced to admit the man clearly possessed.

"...Beasts thou art," the man continued, more muttering to himself than speaking to an audience. "I see; this is my calling."

The thing in his hand was brought to bear, and Zodd perceived it to be some sort of large, hand-held saw. He stepped forward, and a menacing aura leveled around the burning field that made even Zodd check his blood lust. This was no mere human. Was it perhaps another Apostle? It was certainly not one he'd ever seen or heard of.

"The encroaching one," he said, his words cryptic, "art thou his servants?"

Grunbeld, who had stepped away to confront the swordsman Gutts again, halted at the sudden spray of friendly blood and gore, and now eyed the slender figure with careful surprise. "The encroaching one?" he parroted, unable to discern the identity he referred to. But they _were_ servants; the newborn fifth of the God Hand.

He would receive no clarification, as the man approached the increasingly agitated Apostles before him. "No... It matters not. The bell has already been rung." With a flick of his wrist, the saw swung out, lengthening into a sharp cleaver. He took a step forward before a massive hammer smashed into the ground mere inches from his toes. Grunbeld stood aside and glowered down at him.

"You will face myself before this bunch. I can already tell you are a force to be reckoned with, but you will find no avenue of victory before my might."

The man seemed to eye the hammer before him, only to lift a leg and plant his boot solidly on the head of the weapon, undeterred. "Victory," the man muttered, lifting his head to match gazes with the legendary Apostle. "Victory taketh many shapes."

Grunbeld's eyes narrowed as he once again felt the unsettling weight off anxiety burden his shoulders. A sudden clatter drew his attention as he beheld the group of humans moving away into the forest, no doubt to make their escape. A flare of frustration coiled up the giant's spine as he returned his attention to the man before him.

A loud, somber tone, like the one barely heard before, only clear and crisp in the burning air, resonated through the place. The man reared back with his weapon wielding arm. "Ask not, frail ones, for whom the bell doth toll," he spoke in that same foreboding voice. Only then did Grunbeld notice a strange abnormality. The man's eyes, once human in appearance, were no longer so. Instead, a blackness engulfed them; a dark abyss permeated by the pin-lights of stars. It was as if he were looking into two orbs canvased by the nebulous colors of the night sky.

This was no human, and this certainly was no Apostle.

Zodd, who had seen the rise of many forces that minds both vast and simple could accurately call "gods," knew instinctively that what they were dealing with was far more than a mere monster in human flesh. This was something stranger. Something older.

"This...!" The words died in his throat, but his companion-in-battle knew as well.

"It's incarnation," the Skull Knight finished. Nothing more needed to be said to interest Zodd in the most immense way. Incarnation was a method for those unable to directly interact with the physical world to obtain a flesh and blood body; to change from "ghost" to "living." But incarnation was a method reserved for those whose vast powers regulated them to the ethereal world; beings like Griffith, who just recently became the fifth God Hand. So then... what exactly was _this?_

The man, for that was the form he took, reared his striking arm back.

"…For the bell tolls for thee."

Grunbeld quickly raised his shield to block the weapon, only to recoil from the force of the blow. His eyes widened when he realized the blade of the weapon had punctured through the steel plating and wooden frame, nicking into the iron shell of the cannon hidden within. But before he could retaliate with a crushing blow from his hammer, the man had lifted himself up over the giant and with a movement so clean and sharp it was analogous to a saber, he pulled his weapon free, the thing retracting into a more compact form, exposing its sharp saw-toothed edges. In a flurry of movement, Grunbeld felt his skin split open from a series of slashes so swift, he'd barely been able to see the man's arm move.

When his senses finally caught up, he roared a painful howl and swung his mace with a furious rage, tearing the earth apart and seeking the flesh of his foe.

But the man was nimble, ducking, sliding and hopping under, around and over every strike. When he'd managed to drive him away beyond the reach of his weapon, he again raised his shield, this time intent on blasting the man to smithereens. In a flash of red, the rustic iron hunk of metal slammed into the barrel of his cannon, the force of which threw his aim wide and away from the man. The giant grimaced in surprise as his arm followed the course of physics. In a moment, he gathered the situation, and he couldn't help by feel a chuckle of victory rise in his throat. As impressive as the strength was behind the man's throw, and even more impressive the density of steel that the saw-blade was to actually nick his cannon, he was clearly a fool for throwing away his only... weapon...

His eyes widened in incredulity as he beheld the man, right arm weaponless, but left hand now armed. Or rather now _cannoned_. A great gun; larger than was reasonable for a creature of his meager stature, the man gripped a cannon of the size one might find defending the walls of a great castle, and hefted it was such speed as belied an unprecedented strength.

And he was staring down its blackened barrel.

With as much speed as he could muster, Grunbeld turned his own cannon-arm back to man and pulled the trigger. Twin flashes of flame spewed from the barrels of their respective weapons, and the shells detonated with a spectacular flash.

Zodd beheld this confrontation with intense interest. From the smoke flew an uncertain shape, even as it flew past his head and sunk deep into a distant tree. It was the man's cleaver.

The smoke cleared away, difficult as it was considering the burning tree adding to the darkening canvas of the sky. Both combatants stood apart from each other, nursing wounds from their exchange. The cloths on Grunbeld's left arm were in tatters, the armor and shield that had once covered it missing, and the cannon's shell now a blown out hunk of slag. The stranger's left arm, conspicuously missing the cannon that had graced it moments before was singed and blackened, but beyond that, there was no physical injury to be seen upon his person. He didn't give it a second thought. With a roll of his shoulders the human-shaped thing looked down on the giant; an impressive feat given the difference in their stature.

"Thou don'st man's flesh like clothing," he said with more certainty than Zodd might have expected, gesturing with a finger to the legendary giant. "Return to thine nakedness, creature; thy true bestial form."

Grunbeld grimaced from the pain but managed the find himself grinning through it. Did this not-human seek to chastise _him_ for wearing the skin of a mortal? "Hah! Your hypocrisy is staggering. Do you not also borrow the form of man for your convenience? Even _I_ can see as much!"

The man blinked, a short confusion roiling over him. Presently he spoke again, this time with a tone that made Zodd's fur bristle and skin crawl.

"…I see. Mayhap, did I overestimate thy perception? I'd thought thine eyes might be able to perceive me, being servants of the encroaching one as thou art."

He looked down at his own body, examining it as though it were the first time he were seeing it. "No, that's not the case. I have simply forgotten how _imperceptive_ the waking world is…" His eyes rose to scrutinize the armored solider before him. "You know I am not fully man, yet you cannot see my true form?"

Grunbeld raised a brow unknowingly. Why would he be able to see the thing's true form if the thing hadn't transformed? Or perhaps, most infuriatingly, the thing was making _light_ of him? "You would deign to slight me with your mockery?" The giant growled rhetorically. "Then I will show you neither respect nor mercy!"

The man's eyes widened imperceptivity as the giant before him changed from human to… something. Was it reptilian? No, it was also stone… or rather, crystal. A crystal lizard? But lizards didn't grow to this size. Perhaps it was more appropriate to call it a crystal dragon. No sooner had he come to such a conclusion did white vapors of flame seep from the creature's mouth.

Dragon indeed.

"I am Grunbeld, captain of the Hawk's War Demon Army. To you who stand in my way, in the way of the Hawk's orders, I will give no quarter!"

The man's sky-lit eyes narrowed, but the crinkling of the corners of his eyes belied the smile beneath his high collar and mask. For a moment Grunbeld wondered if he delighted in the challenge of battle, the same as he and every other apostle did. But then the man bent backwards with such speed and abruptness that Grunbeld almost though he'd vanished, and in his place whirled a blackened figure with a massive sword approaching him at terminal velocity.

Grunbeld felt his huge body reflexively recoil as the giant blade crashed against his crystalline hide. And the accompanying pain of said hide cracking under the sharpened force of the blow. With a panicked breath, flames spewed from his mouth toward the berserker below, driving it away with the threat of incineration.

Grunbeld had almost forgotten about the swordsman. And yet, even from his heightened vantage, he could no longer see the subject of his distraction. The man, if that was even what he was, which he doubted, had vanished.

Zodd blinked, having lost sight of the being after Guts nearly chopped it in half on his way to Grunbeld. In the short second Zodd's eyes had left him to track the black swordsman, he'd disappeared, along with (now that he noticed) the weapon that had been blown into the nearby tree.

* * *

The hunter ducked as he pushed aside a low-hanging branch of a tree, stepping out of the shadows and into the light. He did not look back upon the patch he had trodden; a slayer of beasts he may have been, but his prey those monsters were _not._ For he was an interloper in someone else's hunt. That black armored man, and that skull-embroidered horseman. And it had not escaped his gaze that the women and children were also nearby, assaulted by more beast-men. He slew two upon his exit.

Each one oozed with blood and taint; a familiar, yet foreign aura that resembled the sensation he'd felt before. _'Servants of the encroaching one…'_ He knew not its name, only that it was attempting to stand in his place. He could feel its presence in the world around him.

But the task was a far more complicated than simply tearing space apart and setting the young god in its place; age was no _sure_ measure of skill or power, and so he needed to proceed with some amount of due caution. Moreover, it had incarnated into the waking world, a difficult process depending on where one comes from and the faculties of the current age. If it was incarnated, then he would need to find its physical form and hunt it down, slaughter it, and scatter it's remains to the four corners of the Earth. Let it stew for a few aeons as it learned the proper humility and respect as was due to him.

A reclusive creature he was… so long as none rose to challenge his authority in this place, he had no quarrels… nor any desire to quarrel for that matter; he was content to remain within his own dreams. Now he had to flex a little muscle.

But as far as incarnation went, by whatever means it was brought into the world, the way _he_ was brought in was not a ritual easily replicated. The ringing of the bell brought him forth, but only for as long as the desired task of the beckoner remained uncompleted or he is not killed prior to. But he had not heard the intonation of the bells in… far too long; they likely no longer existed. And now there was evidence the encroacher was gathering an army of beasts to its side, and as was the case with humans, where a god walks, men soon follow.

The hunter sighed as he looked up into the sky. Some gods could see the future… or rather, the likely outcomes of certain events. The chronology of causality. This was however limited in scope, and regrettably a skill he did not possess; it was against his nature after all.

Something told him however his new rival did, or perhaps, employed one who did. Call it instinct… if such an abstract suspicion could accurately be called such.

He would need a more certain form of permanence. He needed _true_ incarnation… not the cheap imitation the bells afforded him. His feet hit the packed dirt of road that lead through the forest. It stretched out into the woods in either direction, hiding their destinations from view.

His journey must start somewhere after all.

* * *

Rebekka felt herself falling.

Above her was water.

Below her was water.

A thin line of empty space stretched out across the horizon in all directions. She was not falling, nor was she rising. And yet the sky and the earth were collapsing, and she was their epicenter.

When the opposing sides of the universe crashed upon each other, she felt herself crushed into oblivion. Yet in that infinitesimal space, where the thin horizon's light was no longer visible, where only darkness surrounded her and the waters of the deep blinded her in darkness, she looked into the vast gloom and knew she was not alone. Something else was with her. A mass, large in her vision, yet she knew was so very far away, shifted like jelly in the distance.

All around her was water, yet she knew which way was down, down, down… for down she went, as if plummeting through the sky. There was no great mass of earth rushing to meet her, she knew, but even so, something was there. For a brief instant, a sphere of fading light eclipsed her vision, and she thought it was the moon she was racing to meet. Perhaps it was. But for a single moment, the black eclipse that occluded the celestial body _moved;_ moved to _her._

A great eye.

She'd been found.

She woke up screaming. The dark of her room did nothing to calm her racing heart and groggy mind. She was back in her bed, safe and sound. But the vividness of the dream felt so real… She let her breath slow and her aching chest still. Her nightgown was damp with sweat and stuck to her like a thin, transparent film. Or rather, it should have been transparent. Instead, it was red.

With a sudden panic, she ran to the small mirror in her room and beheld herself, a dark crimson flow spilled down her dress, thickened drops of blood spattering onto the floor, soaking her toes.

A wound.

She gripped the collar of the thing and tore it in two down the middle.

There, in the middle of her naked chest was a thing. A symbol. Like a claw, it reached down to grasp and unseen object, and from its strokes flowed blood like a river. Had she carved it into herself in the night? Her bloody fingers told the tale…

So stunned was she by the copious fluid, the _impossible_ quantity, that she couldn't bring herself to move. Then, from the blackness of the red writhed a small thing. First one, then two, then five, then ten… Multitudes… Uncountable tendrils snaked from within her wound.

She couldn't stop herself from letting out a scream. But from her mouth came not sound, but more of the same; thrashing masses of slimy, slithering fingers. As if the blood on the floor were but the surface of a great pool, and her feet stood upon its surface, they rose from below, encircling her legs with the sensuality of a lover, and caressed her palms with an uncanny grace.

It terrified her. She made to pull them off her only to realize she couldn't move a single muscle, so strong were the things that gripped her. They wormed their way up over her tender flesh, converging on the only uncovered anatomy left; her eyes. Like a twisting maelstrom of shadow they eclipsed her vision, and she was once again plunged into the depths of darkness.

She woke again.

Her breath was calm. Her senses sharp. All lethargy and fatigue gone. The uncomfortable dampness of nightly sweat all but a faint memory of an experience half remembered. The dark was receding from the breaking dawn outside her window and she swung her legs out from beneath the covers and onto the wooden floor.

 _'That dream again…'_

More often than not, she found herself in this same position, reeling from the half remembered dream…or perhaps nightmare of the night. She once again approached her mirror, pulling apart the neckline of her nightgown to reveal a white mark of skin, pale as a scar, but unbefitting of the term. It appeared more as a birthmark, though she knew it hadn't been there more than a month ago. She often found herself forgetting she'd never had it to begin with.

It was such a strange thing, but one of the many she had begun to accept as unbending reality.

With a breath of refreshing morning air, she pulled off her nightie and quickly put together her customary attire. Satisfied, she stepped down the stairs to the main floor.

The fireplace that once housed a roaring blaze now smoldered quietly, certain embers still clinging to life at hands of a man seated at the table before it. He, like the few who had trickled into her father's clinic from the wilds, was nursing a wound that had begun to heal up nicely.

"Oh, you're already awake, Mr. Wallace?" she queried as she moved to inspect his bandaged wound. The conditions of the city weren't the best, even in the building her father had turned into a "clinic," so she had to make sure every morning that all bandaged wounds were carefully cleaned and rewrapped. At least, that was how it used to be...

Wallace waved off her concern. "Never ye mind that busywork of yers, lass," he said with a thick, woodsman accent that bespoke how much time he'd spent outside civilized territories. "I's just waitin' ferya to wake up so I c'n put another log on th' fire." Even as he spoke he reached over to the small pile of wood near the stone fireplace and began stacking two or three in place.

She noticed how the arm she'd bandaged just the night before was now unwrapped, the sleeve still pulled back, but the gashing wound he'd sported on his way in now sealed and well scabbed over.

She frowned as she watched the man work. "You needn't trouble yourself, Mr, Wallace," she chided as she came over to aid him.

He motioned her aside. "Trouble? 'T'ain't no trouble 't all, I promise ye. Yer work 'n me arm was nothin' short 'f 'strordinary."

Once, she might have blushed at the stranger's praise, but now, she felt only quiet in her soul.

"Strange though, I tell ye," he continued on as men tend to do when desiring to fill the empty void with conversation. "I was lookin' ferward to havin' that dream 'bout the white hawk again… Pity 't weren't nothin' o' the sort."

She eyed him askance as she returned to the counter where she knew some ale was residing. She couldn't exactly sympathize; never once had she had the so-called, "hawk dream." It seemed everyone had been blessed with the image of a hopeful, glorious white hawk descending from the heavens to bring goodness and freedom to all – everyone except her.

"Oh?" she asked as innocently as she could. "What sort of dream did you have then?"

Wallace took a moment to think, turning to her with an open mouth as if to answer when his mouth abruptly shut and he found himself grinning with a chuckle in his throat.

"Well, I don't reckon I c'n rightly say. 'Cept that was _incredibly_ strange." He let out a chuckle as he rubbed his wounded arm; his amusement gave way to a grimace. "Pain's a wretched thing," he admitted "but it's healin', thanks to ye."

She wanted to say what she always said, and now grew tired of saying. ' _It wasn't anything I did.'_

Long ago when her mother had passed away to disease, her father gathered all the money he could manage and set about studying the subject of medicine, setting most of the money aside as an investment on a sizable house on the city of Ashburrow. Ironically, due to the cleanly nature of the building per her father's requirements, often newcomers were encouraged to fake sickness so that they might stay the night in a warm, clean bed. Once her father caught wind of this, he set about remodeling the place into a combination inn and clinic.

A "Cl-inn-ic" if you will.

Divided in half so the sick might not mingle with the healthy, the common room of the main floor was a place where one might request a strong drink or warm food. To that end, she'd learned well how to provide such things. Though her father was now away, attempting to establish another clinic in a nearby city, she did her damndest to keep the place running, not just in the manner of consumable services, but also in the way of medicine.

She knew how to clean wounds, bandage them, treat for sickness and disease, stitch wounds and set bones, but even she had no medical explanation for the mysterious concoction she'd administered to her guests on occasion.

Last night's dream had not been an isolated incident; it had been recurring for nearly a month now, perhaps longer. The first night she'd woken from it to find that strange scar on her chest and a bottle of red blood in her cellar. Though she'd never known her father to possess the supplies necessary for infusions or transfusions, she nonetheless brought it out when the situation called for it, which coincidentally enough happened that very same day.

If she were a pious woman, she'd say it was fate, or the hand of God. But she was a skeptic and less than superstitious. Even so, she had a hard time explaining everything that had begun to happen since that day.

Now her clinic was empty, save the burly form of Mr. Wallace, and two other guests. Each had arrived on her doorstep with one ailment or another that coincidentally required a transfusion. Lucky for them, she supposed, that she _just so happened_ to have the materials necessary.

They were healed overnight.

 _Inexplicably._

And each of them awoke the next morning with a distant look in their eyes, quiet, introspective dispositions, and a sullen, brooding aura. She hadn't asked the reason, but at the time she suspected it was the recent news of the Kushan villains moving from town to town, city to city, killing, raping, and kidnapping any and all they pleased. Then again, the hushed voices of the three, huddled secretively in the corners of the house, that silenced if so much as a floor board creaked out of place indicated a much more enigmatic purpose.

Two others had arrived much the same way they had, been treated and left on their way. But they always came back. Quietly, and in the night. They stole up to their rooms, and she would wake to find them sitting next to the fire, staring out the adjacent window at the pre-dawn sky, their eyes haunted by something beyond her sight. Yet they always brightened when she approached them.

She had asked at one time whether they had known each other from some other venture, but had been told that their first meeting had been within the confines of her clinic. Yet the way they interacted with each other left her suspicious if that were actually true. One night, one of them, the first man she'd treated (a Mr. Dunham) approached her cautiously. He spoke in a low tone. He was quiet, but firm. Confident, as if every word he spoke was the truth, but he didn't know how he knew it to be so.

"Treat the desperate, the sick, and the eager. The blood is and will _always be_ with you," he'd said. What he'd meant by it, she didn't know even to this day, and she wondered if perhaps even _he_ knew. But she'd done so regardless, as was her father's strict vow to do so. And every morning, should her previous stock run dry, a new bottle of glassed blood would be sitting within her cellar. The lock was notably undamaged and unpicked, and a layer of dust covered the ting in such a way as to imply it had sat neglected in the corner of the cold room for far longer than Rebekka could guess. Yet the blood was fresh, thick, and to her continued disbelief, _working._

"Mr. Dunham!"

Her eyes left the counter in front of her where she was chopping vegetables to eye the familiar form of the man in the doorway. _Speak of the devil and he shall appear…_ as he father had often cautioned.

Wallace tipped his hat respectfully. "What news from the front?" The other two men greeted him with only a nod and a long look.

Dunham, markedly younger than Wallace but bearing notable gradients of grey in his facial hair, shook his head grimly. When he spoke, it was with a similarly grave countenance. "Empire's rolled up the western regions," he announced dismally. All eyes in the room were on him as he shook off the cold of the morning from his coat and he approached the fire. He let his eyes meet each of theirs in turn.

"Wyndham's been occupied."

 _That_ news sent a chill through her shoulders, and it wasn't from the cold. If Wyndham was occupied, then by all measures of warfare (which she admittedly knew little of) the war was over, and the Empire was the victor.

"God's teeth…" cursed one of the men at the far end of the room. Gottfried was a thin man with deceptively dense body structure, and unlike his fellows, seemed more at home in the cold than by the now-roaring fire. Among the five she'd administered blood transfusions to, he was the quietest; to hear him exclaim was a peculiarity.

Dunham gave a morose chuckle. "If God were a beast of terror and cruelty then 'God's teeth' have indeed sunk into the heart of Midland. The aristocracy has moved the bulk of their forces to Vritannis to join forces with the armies of the Holy See. I heard Emperor Ganishka is residing in the palace at Wyndham."

The information hung in the air, digesting at a lethargic rate.

"…We need more information…" came the timid, yet agreeable voice of the fourth man in the room. More of a boy than a man, he was youthful and fair faced, though he was as tall as any of the men around him. His name was Alexander. "Ourselves alone won't suffice."

The other three men in the room were silent, not so much in revelation but rather in thought; they already knew that much. For whatever reason, they'd been chosen for a mission, and it was their contracted duty to accomplish that mission.

Dunham let out a breath of air as he twisted his hands this way and that in front of the flames. "We know, lad… We know. But for the time being, we're _all_ we've got."

Silence reigned for some time, save the crackle of timber and the noise of kitchen-work. It was times like these, when certain words were uttered and particular phrases spoken that she doubted their prior involvement with each other. Presently said silence was broken by Wallace's sudden tone.

"Hold a moment," he said, mostly to himself since no one else moved to interrupted him. "Vritannis?" He turned to Dunham with a serious gaze. "Yer sure?"

The man gave a nod, confident in his tale.

Wallace returned to a contemplative state, folding his hands in front of him on the table he sat at. He spoke again again, this time with deliberate slowness.

"I h'd a dream in th' night," he began, "where I's standin' on a Vritannian highway." His eyes were distant, as if recounting a distant memory. "Thar was fire everywheres, and these…" He struggled to think of the word. "Monsters? Demons? Marchin' through the streets and puttin' everything that moves to th' sword." He looked up at his four compatriots. "Mayhap... _that's_ where our hunt begins."

"Beasts, you mean." Alexander spoke up with such suddenness that all eyes flickered to him. He faltered for a moment, perhaps contemplating whether it was his place to correct his elders. But with a sudden expression sired by boldness, he carried on. "They were beasts. The instant I saw them, that's what screamed in my brain. I felt like it was my duty to kill them. Like I'd been born to."

Gottfried's eyes narrowed at the boy and both Dunham and Wallace turned to regard him fully. As one, their eyes glanced among themselves, as if silently confirming an unspoken theory. After a second or two, Wallace nodded silently.

"Yes... That was the word I thought at the time... _Beasts._ "

Dunham blinked curiously. "A unanimous dream between the four of us..." he postured, none rising to counter him. He looked at Wallace with an expecting expression. "What does it mean?"

Wallace shook his head with raised hands. A short chuckle escaped his lips. "Look not t' me, friends. I'm no fortune-tell'r by 'ny means."

"And yet our futures have been shown to us," Alexander continued, rising from his seat to approach his elder associates. "This is by no means a coincidence, yes? We all agree so?"

A silent, slow nodding of heads.

"So..." Dunham's eyes furrowed as he contemplated his own thoughts. "...To Vritannis?"

As if emboldened by his suggestion, Gottfried pursed his lips and stood to his full height. "Aye gentlemen. _To Vritannis._ "

Rebekka watched as the four, faces suddenly split by leering grins that none could explain, set about packing their belongings, designating who to stay and prepare packing arrangements and who to go out and purchase necessary supplies. She knew they would not leave _this_ night; a trip to Vritannis from her little town was no trivial thing. It would take many days of travel if attempted on foot, and none of them possessed the distinct smell of horse that indicated they were riders. She began pouring the bits of produce into a small cauldron to soak as she set about chopping potatoes. If they were leaving, then she'd make sure to make enough to fill their bellies to the brim. Her father was never one to let a customer leave their care improperly attended to; that included providing a suitable final meal that would not easily leave them wanting for more soon. And she was nothing if not a loyal daughter.

With a sudden lurch, the smell of the food made her take a step back and clutch her spontaneously nauseated belly. She held her breath, and her vomit, as she struggled to regain control of her self. After several seconds, she did, her breath quickly returning in deep intakes.

There it was again... That unsolicited sickness she'd been suffering as of late. Though she was a practitioner of medicine, she had no explanation to explain her episodes. Once her guests were sent on their way, she'd make sure to head into the town and ask a few friends if they knew. She also needed to purchase more needles.

She looked back up to the suddenly bustling room, the five men moving about swiftly and with purpose.

No, _four_ men. She blinked and shook her head vigorously. For a moment, she thought she'd seen a fifth man amidst the den, with otherworldly eyes and an eerie presence. The image was simultaneously vague _and_ vivid,and it sent a shiver down her spine and made her heart skip a beat.

She looked again.

No fifth figure met her gaze.

For a moment, she entertained the idea that her mind was simply playing tricks on her. At the least that's what her skeptic mind told her. But another voice whispered in her ear with honey-sweet softness... And with all the inexplicable happenings in recent weeks, she found herself pliable to its words; that voice had a name.

 _Doubt._

* * *

 **A/N: And there we have it! Chapter one of many!**

 **Because I prefer to make longer chapters on FanFiction, my update rate suffers as a result. However, on SpaceBattles dot net, I feel less obligated to make individual installments so lengthy, and instead present them as more... episodic in nature. For that reason, I've combined this (what might be called "episodes one and two") into a single chapter. I _really_ hate to release small chapters here on FF, so I encourage you to also keep up with me and my works on SpaceBattle's forums, where you wont have to wait for sufficient content to be produced before I compile it into chapters for . **

**Or not. It's up to you.**

 **See you all next time, here or there, hell or high water! o7**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And parts three and four make chapter two! As it turns out, every two postings on spacebattles accounts for just enough content to warrant adding a another chapter here. As such, here we are. Enjoy, you twisted maniacs! :D**

* * *

His eyes opened with a serene start. Above him mix-matched clouds floated in silence. A gentle breeze warmed him, while the cobble earth beneath him was cold to the touch. He raised his head, glancing about himself furtively.

He stood, taking in his surroundings in a much clearer fashion. He stood before an old church; more of a chapel than not, which degraded stone steps leading up to its sealed doors. For a moment he wondered, how strange? for he was certain this was not the first time he'd witnessed this sight, nor felt these sensations. It was as if he'd already retraced these steps once before…

He stepped forward, sans caution, for he knew – somehow – that this was a safe place. He couldn't speak to why.

But there was one thing that stood out as differing from his half-forgotten memory. He was certain that before the steps leading to the chapel, there had been a thing… something laying aside. For a moment, he barely recalled what it was, until he saw the forgotten thing standing where it had once lain. It was a human sized figurine. Abnormally tall, dressed in fine attire with a thick dress and simple bonnet, its hands clasped in its front, and eyes watching expectantly, as if it had been awaiting his presence all this time.

All what time?

He frowned as he narrowed his own gaze towards it and approached. Its face, a beautiful porcelain material, almost shown in the light of the crystal clear moon that hung in the sky in the background of the chapel above him. The thing, this doll moved, reaching out a hand to him in a gesture of welcome.

"Master Dunham," it – she – began, sending chills streaking down his spine, though of what emotion he strangely couldn't discern, "it is good to see you well."

Strangely, seeing it move, hearing it speak disturbed him less than he'd expected it would. It felt… familiar.

Unable to establish some tenuous grasp on vocabulary, he settled for a simple nod of acknowledgement. The doll took his muteness in seamless stride, gesturing with gentle hands up the stairs.

"You are expected within," she said as if it was the simplest truth she'd ever delivered.

Dunham frowned, but, seeing as… somehow, he was "expected," he wasn't left with any time to think about what exactly he was doing.

So up the steps he went.

When he reached the small double doors, open as they were, he gazed inside. The single room was lit by warm golden light cast from the burning fireplace, illuminating several cases of books, books which also littered the room every which way, yet in a fashion that bespoke some due amount of organization. On his right was a table, upon which sat countless tools and trinkets, and above which hung many different blades of varying designs, A velvety red carpet, trimmed with gold thread ran along the length of the small chapel all the way up to the altar at its head. For a moment, the church was empty, yet when he blinked, it was not so. In front of the altar sat a man dressed in drab leather with his back towards the entrance.

The man did not turn at his arrival, so Dunham cautiously approached. He'd gotten halfway to the altar when the man turned to regard him. He was an older fellow, old enough for his hair to have turned white at snow beneath his cap.

In one of his hands was clutched a simple book, its title too faded to make out from their distance apart. It was closed with a thump.

"Ah, you've arrived," the stranger commented with a pleasant tone of voice. For some reason he couldn't explain, it all felt a little too… familiar. Like he'd done this before…

How very déjà vu.

"Déjà rêvé, actually," the man countered, startling him.

He was sure he hadn't said that aloud…

The stranger set the book in his hand onto the altar, setting it aside thoughtlessly, yet with such measured delicacy that Dunham was sure every movement was actually very deliberately.

Dunham fumbled for words. "Why… No, how am I here right now?" He recalled the clouded voice that he saw surrounding the grounds around the chapel. "Is this a dream?"

He'd never had presence of mind to recall dreams, nor to notice that he was dreaming at all. Yet he'd heard of those who could dream so lucidly as to be able to control the happenings within. Perhaps this was his first.

"Not a dream. The dream." The man lowered his hands to the sides of his chair, where he gripped a pair of wheels and pushing himself forward a short measure. "The only dream that matters."

Dunham fixed him with a curious look. "The Hunter's Dream," he clarified with an ambiguous smile. "But where are my manners? My name is Gehrman. Friend to you hunters."

Dunham's brow furrowed. "Hunters? I'm afraid you must have me confused with someone else. I'm an outdoorsman yes, but my skill is in metalworking. I'm certainly no career hunter."

The man's eerie smile didn't fade. Though there was a slight tinge of annoyance in his voice. "Oh, I don't doubt it. Hunters who enter the Dream rarely are." He let out a low chuckle. "But you might recall the contract you signed before you came here last…"

At the mention of the emphasized word, something in Dunham's mind triggered, a lost memory hovering at the fringes of his mind, like those so faintly remembered after a night of good drinking.

"Contract…" Dunham repeated as if to jog his own memory.

It worked.

"Of course… When I arrived at the clinic for aid with my sickness! The girl, she – she gave me a drip of good blood, flushing out the bad. And then when she left the room that man, he-"

In a flash, the memories returned. He'd been lying there, watching with mild interest as young Rebekka took care to clean the site where the needle would puncture his flesh. Then, once she'd done the deed, she left to attend her other duties. No sooner had she done so than did the man appear. Tall and imposing and with a tone to match. He was masked by a thick stained cloth over his mouth, which at first Dunham assumed was because he was some sort of doctor, but only now realized the rest of his attire didn't match the profession. He'd offered a deal… In exchange for blood which would empower the body beyond the limits of the common man, he would become the stranger's agent. A hunter... or something.

Dunham was by no means a frail man, but the sickness that had plagued him for months had yet to subside, and the exhaustion it filled his body with had driven him near to the edge. The temptation of empowerment was… too sweet to pass over. He'd accepted. And then that vision…

"I see the moment in question turning about in that head of yours," Gehrman commentated, drawing his attention back to the old man.

"That man… Who was he?"

Gehrman's eyes, partially glazed though they were, were piercing as he spoke. "Your patron. And host of this dream."

Dunham cocked his head aside. "Patron? Host? You mean this isn't my dream?"

Gehrman gave a snort. "As flattered as I am that you think you'd dream of me…" He left the comment unfinished. "No, it's actually best if you don't think too hard about all of this." The elder said, his smile dimming somewhat. "Just… follow the signs. It's for your own good, remember?"

And indeed he did remember. He'd had this conversation before after all.

This was the second time he'd been to this dream.

"Yes… Yes, you said that before," he revealed, though they both already knew. "I… I was hurt fighting the Kushan and I… I fell asleep. Woke up here." He remembered said events with some due clarity, yet he couldn't quite remember how the devil he'd gotten back to the clinic afterwards...

Gehrman nodded slowly. "The Dream protects those who sign the contact."

"Protects?" Dunham frowned pondering what the man was actually saying. "Do you mean to say it won't let me die?"

At that, Gerhman's gaze turned cold and cynical. They were black, and some of the haze faded from within them. "Oh, do not fool yourself. You'll most certainly die. Again, and again, and again. Over and over you'll perish and expire until you go right mad." The perturbing grin on his face sent a chill down Dunham's spine. For a moment, he wondered why he was taking this man's words so literally. Surely death cannot be circumvented by just a piece of paper and a clause. That wasn't how the world worked, much to the dismay of every honest death-fearing man.

"But you're lucky,"Gehrman pointed out with a wry smirk. "You have my wonderful company to return to each and every time."

Dunham glowered at the man mirthlessly. "Oh… lucky me." He let the sardonicism go and tried to find anything but the old man to occupy his gaze. "I think I'd rather take that freakish mannequin outside..."

For a moment, a dark look flashed over the old man's face, so quickly in fact Dunham wondered if he'd even seen it right in the first place. But Gehrman's next words confirmed he very well might have.

"Oh... I'd be careful of such language. The doll is a very special thing, as you will soon find out and if you have any sense about you."

Dunham frowned, his good spirits draining in the face of what could very easily be interpreted as a threat. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked skeptically. It was obvious the man knew more than he was letting on, and purposefully leaving out important information that he could share. He has a feeling the old coot enjoyed watching him bumble about like a butterfly trying to evade a spider's webs.

Once again, the old man smiled toothily, a dry cackle escaping his lips. "It means your patron will be quite upset with you if you don't learn to mind your manners."

Dunham's frown deepened. His patron... "The man in the mask... Who is he, truly?"

Gerhman leaned back in his chair calmly a knowing twinkle in the man's eye. "You'll come to find out soon enough, my dear hunter."

As if to silence any further questioning, a presence made itself known behind him, and he noticed the doll, pale and porcelain in appearance, stood in the doorway. She gestured for him to step outside. He gave a long look at the old man but finally acquiesced, following the womanly figure's direction out the door and down the stone steps.

* * *

He was the kind of individual who kept to himself. A solitudinarian through and through; he wasn't especially fond of people, and preferred to judge society from a distance. After all, the closer you stand, the less you can see. And if nothing else, it could be said of him that he preferred to see the big picture.

Once, long ago, at the onset of his self-imposed isolation, he was brazen enough to think he'd seen all there was to see. Of course, that was soon proven to be false, and he bore the memory was a reminder of his foolish, youthful pride. Though he'd be the first to contend an elder's self-worth based on their age alone, he had to admit that to dismiss the experience that came with it would be the height of folly.

Unfortunately, to learn from someone, one must first spend time with them… a daunting notion for someone of his disposition. Nevertheless he found himself walking the murmuring outskirts of the town. Not of his own volition, mind you. It was more or less an order. From who, you ask? Recall a few lines prior…

He sought the big picture. But if… just what if… the picture you expect to see is only a single dot in a great pointillist canvas? Would that not send one's mind a-whirling? Could one's mind even comprehend such a thing? A reality so vast it cannot be perceived even by those who occupy space within that same reality? It near drove him mad when he'd learned such. Indeed, every time he ruminated on it, he felt his teeth grind against each other, sending jolts of pain through his tightened jaw. It made him so angry. Were men such helpless beings that were blind to even the dirt beneath their feet? Blind to the sky just overhead?

What utter foolishness. What catastrophic idiocy!

It was an ailment the entire world suffered. It would be the death of the human race.

At the very least, he took solace in knowing he wasn't the only one who'd glimpsed this unseen truth. Beside him strode another.

This one was clad in a thick coat that looked as if it were taken from a great winged creature, beneath which was a set of steel armor. His face obscured, fully encased in an ornate helmet that tapered to a point at his mouth. Like himself, this stranger with whom he found himself accompanied was quiet. He'd barely heard the man utter more a dozen words at any given time.

But the letter he carried with him spoke volumes.

For the past few weeks, he'd been haunted by dreams… rather, nightmares. It was recurring, like a horrifying book he couldn't help but reread. Dreams of strange monsters that walked the earth aside armored men, sent out to wage war against other men, slaves to the will of a master not of darkness, but of light. A Bright Lord bearing the trappings of a luminous bird of prey.

He would witness the carnage wrought and wake soon after. Sometimes though, more so as of late, the dream might continue and he'd see things… strange things he didn't understand. Another master, a crownless king, and his army of slinking, monstrously strong men. Not soldiers, he observed, but bestial brutes who were sent out to slaughter the servants of the Bright Lord. Beyond that, the dreams seemed to devolve into a series of horrifying and uninterpretable visions. Not that the dreams were obscure; on the contrary, they were impossibly vivid. But that led to even more confusion…

That all changed six days prior.

He'd been walking the garden of his family's villa, pondering the nature of his dreams obsessively as he'd been apt to do as of late, when lo and behold a stranger approached from the hedge maze. That stranger was the man beside him now. Wordlessly, the interloper withdrew an envelope, addressed to him personally. Tentatively, he deigned to read it. Woe to whatever version of himself that didn't read that letter!

Within, certain things were said… certain offers alluded to. Certain futures predicted. Certain mysteries revealed. It wasn't signed, nor did it offer any directions. It was as if the author simply spoke, and expected that to be enough. When he questioned the cloaked stranger about the nature of the letter's origins, he'd simply indicated that if he wanted to know the truth, then he should follow after him… and be willing to give up his freedom.

The man turned to leave with such suddenness and disregard that he'd almost not thought to chase after him. Call him crazy, but the words that were scrawled across the parchment that now lay against his breast in a pocket beckoned him forth. It was beyond his explanation.

"Here."

He was shaken from his ruminations by his companion, the muffled voice from within the helmet both quiet and curiously authoritative (as all his words tended to be).

He looked to the building beside them to which knight had indicated. It was an older building… ornate against the backdrop of the city, however much it had fallen into disrepair. The grounds around it no doubt once stretched well into the city's walls, but over time had been claimed by the wealthy landlords within. It was a surprise said men hadn't claimed the whole of the property; in the state it was in, it was unlikely anyone cared to declare the asset theirs. It also begged the question, "What are we doing here?" A question he gave voice to in that same moment.

The helmed man simply shrugged his head to the side as he pushed one of the doors open. "Come."

Tentatively he followed suit as the man led him through the maze of corridors and rooms with intimate familiarity. Clearly it wasn't the first time the man had been here. Presently they came to particular parquet that had been disguised as just another part of the flooring. The darkness within blinded him, though he was able to follow his guide by the sounds of his boot steps until the light of a torch lit the hall, and continued to do so all the way down at twenty foot increments.

Eventually, the hall emptied into a large room, filled with tables and a raised stone dais upon which sat a throne, and a person upon that throne.

"I see our guest has finally arrived," the individual said as they entered the room, rising from his seat to spread his arms in greetings. "I bid thee welcome, Victor Petrosian."

Victor raised a brow in surprise. "You know my name?" Ah, but the letter had been addressed to him as well. That made sense.

"Of course. We make it our singular duty to know who is who and where they stand. My dear friend Corvus has taken a keen interest in you and your... perspective."

Victor turned to regard the man indicated, realizing that the cloaked enigma was in fact named Corvus. Until then he'd only called him "friend" when addressing him. But that was certainly surprising. That this strange man took an interest in him? Surprising... and disconcerting.

"And who, exactly, is we?"

The man let out a short laugh. "Ah, where are my manners. I am is Regis. We," he gestured between himself and his associate, "are part of an organization comprised of members of various noble houses. Being the son of a prominent family yourself, you understand why we took an interest in you. Well, your nobility and your curiosity."

Victor frowned at the man. He felt... queer. He'd never considered what it might feel like to be unknowingly watched and observed without his knowledge. As a noble's son, it wasn't so foreign to be attended to by many servants who had been trained to take note of his habits. But unlike servants, who served his family, these men were strangers to him. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt about that, but he was certain he didn't like it too much. "What do you mean?" he asked,, his brow furrowing. "Explain!"

Regis made a strange face and grabbed a long candle. Holding it up to a torch, it ignited, and with it he traversed the room, lighting other candles. Warm light slowly spread through the room. "Our organization seeks out those who pursue more than what this petty life has to offer. Those who seek a broader perspective."

The emphasis on those words made it clear that these men were aware of his unspoken desires. How, he wasn't sure, and he honestly was afraid to know.

"I remember when I was first approached by a stranger telling me of things I thought I only knew," Regis continued with a distant smile. "I was skeptical as well. But I gave them a chance. After all, if there are mysteries yet unlearned by mankind that these people might know, was it so strange the think they might have a method for knowing the mind of a stranger?" He eyed Victor with a shake of his head. "Not at all. But, to put your mind at ease, the truth of the matter is we have been doing this for quite some time. In that time we've learned to identify certain traits in individuals that indicate compatibility with our creed. You displayed an eighty-six percent compatibility rating based on distant observation alone."

Victor felt stupid for asking, but he felt compelled to know the answer. "So... you can't read my mind?"

Regis let out a laugh and nodded. "Correct. But we needn't open one's skull to know their mind. There are practices of observation which can reveal just as much as a magic spell could; practices honed over generations of use." He blew out the candle in his hand and set it down, peeling off the wax that had cooled over his fingers.

Victor looked around, noting the room's now-less obscure features. It seemed to be made of stone. On either side of the room were large tapestries bearing the image of a sigil. Two golden wolves, if that's what they actually were... they might have been emaciated lions, or some form of wingless dragons... in a red field rearing up, facing opposite sides of the crest. Rather simple, if regal looking.

"As old as we are, we are but infants compared to the things that exist beyond the veil... beyond mere sight. How many civilizations have risen, fallen, risen again, overturned by another and crushed into dust? How many conquering kingdoms have been conquered themselves? How much knowledge has been lost to jealousy and greed? What secrets of history have been hidden away in the deep places of the world? And how insignificant were the lives of those who facilitated those civilizations that we no longer know even existed?" Regis turned and eyed Victor with a stern, discerning gaze. "These are the questions we ask, and the answers we seek."

Truly, Victor would prefer to be honest than deceptive, though he was still unsure as to the benevolence of an organization that had been all but spying on him. In that regard, he found himself agreeing with every word this man was speaking. "I've long since wondered the same thing. Surely there must be more to living than mere life."

Regis turned and walked the center of the room up to the chair atop the dais. "We are the few prosperous humans. Meager men work all of their lives scratching out a living wherever they might. They haven't the attention to worry about things they cannot see. Only we, who in our abundance of leisure allow our minds to drift, consider such things. In that regard, I consider it our noble duty to protect the histories and mysteries of the world. It's about time nobility benefited someone other than themselves, yes?"

Victor found it concerning that every word was in agreeance with his creed. Perhaps it was just a ploy to gain his cooperation for... whatever their true goal was. But then, there was always the chance this was exactly what it appeared to be. A gift from God? Surely it was a sign of some sort. It sounded like it was just the thing he would at any other time kill to be a part of. "What of my family? Do I leave them to join you, or does my position benefit the group in some way?"

"It depends. You are the fourth son of the Petrosian house, and as dangerous as the world is, it is not too far a step from fourth son to head of the house. Naturally, should it not be a hindrance to us, we would willingly... aide you in that endeavor. After all, we take care of our own."

Instantly Victor raised a hand to stop the conversation. "To that I must decline! If it is God's will that I take the mantle as head of the noble Petrosian family, then I will do so according to His machinations alone. I will not seek to interfere with His plan."

Regis frowned but did not comment, except to nod his head understandingly. "You might not feel that way once you're fully inducted, but if that's how you want to proceed, then that is how it shall be."

Victor felt a short breath escape his lungs. He didn't even realize he'd held it. "Thank you."

Regis' frown morphed into a smile and he lifted himself from the chair. "For the time being, you've been kidnapped by a rather dangerous looking individual," he said with a wink and a gesture to follow after him. "Come along. We have some things to do during your... internment."

Victor threw a glance to Corvus, the masked man saying nothing but nodding towards him, either in reassurance or to direct him to follow his fellow. The noble son didn't know either way. He did however follow accordingly.

Perhaps he could put up with these peculiar fellows... for a time at least. Time would tell.

* * *

The troupe stalked forward quietly, less by intention than by unsolicited practice during their weeks of travel. With the fall of Wyndham and the subsequent withdrawal of state troops, the western reaches had become not only a home to Kushan raiders, but to Midland banditry as well. Many men who had lost so much and had nothing else to live for than their own wants... Of course, that made their travels all the more tedious. It was impressive really, how well men who had once been drunks, town thieves, masons, or farmers could train themselves to track a query and do so silently. Such accolades made it dangerous to let one's guard down even in the daylight.

It was fortunate that outlaws had low self esteem, for it seemed more often than not their stench traveled ahead of them as foul and odious as their intentions. It became common for the quartet to literally smell the enemy before they were even in sight. They had eluded many an imminent ambush as a result. No one seemed interested in asking how it was a their human noses were capable of picking up such scents.

Rarely did they sleep. Not for lack of fatigue, but it seemed every instant they detected the presence of a potential foe, excitement would flood their veins like fire and set alight a flame deep within that would burn for hours upon hours before finally calming to embers. It made sleeping on these dangerous roads quite the chore. Nevertheless, sleep eventually did manage to find one or two of them at a time. The other two or three agreed to set watch over their sleeping comrades, for even if they could not find rest in sleep, they would not begrudge a fellow for finally finding it himself. Especially since they did so with the hopes of reciprocity; for with sleep brought the Dream. The Dream that no one spoke of. The Dream and the kind doll who tended to their doubts and fears.

Though she hid a great trove of knowledge within her frame, they did not pry for it, only waited for her to dispense what bits were necessary to push them forward. Alexander, personally, believed she knew of the masked man who had established their contracts, the same contracts that allowed them to visit the Dream. It only made sense after all. Her and that Gehrman fellow both. Though he was far younger than his three contemporaries by some decades, he was careful not to let his inexperience in the field, nor his youthful eagerness become stumbling blocks to his companions. He would watch and quietly learn. Especially since he wasn't so old and skeptical to ignore the strange value of their existences. The Dream, the doll, the old man, the monolithic territory upon which the little chapel sat, amidst a great expanse of sky... What could it be if not some godly miracle? And that a contract need be established before he was granted access to these wonderfully strange luxuries... Could it be said any other way than that they were chosen?

By who he had no clue and he was certain none of the others did either. The enigmatic figure whom they'd taken to calling "the man in the mask" had contracted with them for a reason, and had subtly brought them together and sent them out on a journey to Vritannis. Why and for what, beyond the apocalyptic visions of death and fire that had plagued their dreams before the onset of their journey which were most definitely a sign.

The man wanted them to go. So go they did.

Now, as he sat with a stick in hand, poking idly at the crackling flames of the fire that they encircled he allowed his mind to wander. He didn't deign to think the man as the Lord. For as much as he was apt to call their recent happenings "miracles," there was no symbolic or verbal insinuation that the man or the Dream was in any way related to the faith he'd come to distantly know. Not that he was a very pious man by any means, but he knew enough to pass as one in a crowd if he so chose. Courtesy of his parental upbringing.

He breathed in deep the scent of the smoke and flames. It soothed his mind and calmed his nerves. He'd always been partial to the smell of burning wood, especially in the cold days of autumn. It reminded him that the white snows of winter were coming. It brought back so many fond memories of his family sitting by the fireplace eating and making merry in the warmth. How he longed to return to those blissful days... the days before disease took it all away.

With those foul memories came an equally foul whiff as well. His eyes lit up and he glanced at the only other conscious companion. Wallace, who was sitting further away from the fire, lay contentedly on the grass with his coat pulled up to his chest and his arms resting behind his head as he gazed up at the night sky. The clouds had rolled in far enough to cover the light of the moon making the stars twinkle all the brighter.

"Mr. Wallace," he tentatively called out.

The man spoke with clarity and confidence that belied his more advanced age. "Aye lad, I smell it too."

Alexander felt the hackles of his neck rise. It hadn't been his imagination. "Should we wake the others?" he asked as he eyed the two lying beside the warm flames.

Wallace lifted himself to sit up and followed his junior's eyes and nodded. "Best to."

Alexander set his stick down and made to rouse Gottfried from his sleep. The man stirred for a moment with a groan before his eyes cracked open the sight of Alexander's face occluding the starry night sky. "Up and up, Mr. Gottfried, we have company."

The man grumbled as he brought a hand up to rub his eyes tenderly. "...Pleasant or unpleasant?"

Wallace let out a grim chuckle. "Hah! Would th't any decent comp'ny came in th' middle o' th' night..."

Gottfired grumbled again and rolled himself onto his hands and knees. Alexander went about waking Dunham as well. "Wake up Mr. Dunham, we need to move from here."

"Move?" Wallace interrupted as Dunham stirred from his sleep. "Nay child, th' smoke's dulled yer senses."

Alexander blinked at the man as he took another, deeper sniff of the cold night air. The fire that crackled amidst them seemed to surge with heat, lighting his veins on fire as he realized what Wallace had already known.

They were surrounded.

Alexander let out an unsteady breath as Dunham rose to his feet, cracking his back. That the interlopers had managed to evade their senses surprised him. Perhaps these men washed properly...

By the time all four men had woken and risen fully, the intruders made themselves known. There were nearly a dozen of them of all shapes and sizes weapons gleaming in hand and greed in their eyes.

"Ho gentlemen! No need to rouse yourselves on our account." The one who spoke was tall and built, sturdy enough to perhaps work in a lumber yard or a quarry. He approached and rested his hands on the handle of an ax. "We be but humble highwaymen who seek to give purpose to those things that are no longer wanted. I'm certain you have many such supplies or coins that you'd be more than happy to part with. Or... am I mistaken?"

The glint in his eyes belied his true intentions. Not that anyone but a fool could mistake the nature of the encirclement they found themselves in. Bandits came in all forms. Some preferred surprise and violence to get the job done, others intimidation. Even others might be willing barter but at exorbitant rates; no better than thieves they were.

This cadre seemed to act as a sort of guard, demanding a toll for passage through what they might call their "territory."

Sadly, the would be disappointed. "I'm afraid we have nothing of value for you," Dunham announced as he stepped forward. "We have but the clothes on our backs... and the weapons in our hands." The last line a dangerous tone as Dunham flexed his right hand, said weapon hefted therein.

One thing that each of them in turn had had to deal with was believing whether the Dream had been a genuine experience or not. Any one else might have dismissed it out of hand as a bad bit of dinner. But upon their first visit, they'd been given an item. From the little emaciated imps that emerged from the ground in murky grey water, and in their hands they held them; gifts. As the contracted hunters of the Dream, and therefore of the man in the mask, each of them had been given, free of charge, a weapon of their choosing. A cane, a saw, or an ax. When they'd woken up the next morning, the only thing convincing them that the Dream had actually transpired was that very same weapon still clutched in their hand.

And none could believe such was a coincidence, even then because the nature of the weapons were unique. Each possessed a mechanism that transformed them from one form to another. The saw could unhinge and swing out to use the other side of the blade which was sharpened like a cleaver. The cane turned into a serrated whip of razors. The ax was simpler in construction; the handle could extend, turning the thing into a two-handed pole arm.

Dunham had chosen the first, the dull rustic metal deceptively sharp despite its thick edges. While the cane had appeared the more wieldy of the three, it didn't appear to be much of a weapon, lacking any form of an edge beside the singular pointed end. Of course, at the time Alexander didn't know it had another function. On the other hand, the ax appeared far too large to be used in a fight; it actually looked more like a headsman's ax than anything else. More for ceremony than practical use. At the time, he hadn't expected one of the perks of being a contractor was a notable increase in strength. Wallace had chosen the ax, and yet he seemed to have little difficulty lifting it even with a single hand despite his advanced age. Gottfried, befitting his age, though younger than Wallace, chose the cane. Functional in addition to everything else.

In the end, the only sensible choice for had been the saw-cleaver. It looked heavy, but still light enough to be wielded with one hand, all the more so when he realized how much stronger he actually was.

It was that same weapon he lifted from the ground as he faced the ring of crooked men.

The man who stood ahead of the rest regarded them for a moment, his smile dimming slightly as he noted Dunham wasn't the only one armed. But besides Alexander, each of them were middle-aged or older. Surely in a fight they'd be no match against a dozen fresh and ready youthful men who were used to fighting in the dark of the night. Such were his thoughts Alexander was sure. He knew because he was thinking the same thing. He'd never been a real life-or-death fight before, though over the past few weeks he'd resigned himself to the knowledge that he'd likely have to face that fact sooner rather than later.

Perhaps this was the day. He took a steadying breath.

"Careful old man," the bandit cautioned as his fingers gripped tighter around his weapon. "It's much more easier to profit from the dead than the living," he said with a voice that assured Alexander this man had killed before and was prepared to kill again. No doubt that much was obvious to everyone.

Nevertheless Dunham went on undaunted. "I agree. The only question is who will be left alive to profit at all. You? Us? The Kushan? Perhaps the only true victors are the carrion who'll pick our bones clean." A smile spread across the man's face as he reached behind and grabbed a burning stick from the fire, casting a fearsome shadow across his form. "Well then? Let's get on with it."

Alexander steeled himself as he watched the bandit's eyes narrow and frown mar his expression. "You'll regret this, old man." He turned to his fellows and raised his ax high with a war cry that echoed across the plains.

Moving like the flickering shadows of the firelight, they all danced the dance of death.

* * *

Rebekka felt her stomach twist and ache as she leaned over the bucket. Her mind, when not focusing on the agony she was experiencing, was whirling. How desperately she sought an answer to her ailment. If not a remedy then at least and explanation. For weeks she'd felt this strange nauseousness overtake her time and time again. It didn't make any sense. An upset stomach was only a symptom of something the body had ingested that it needed to expel. She was certain she'd expelled her own body weight in fluids by this point.

Another wave hit her, doubling her over the bucket as she dry-heaved. When the episode had passed, she tenderly pressed her hands against her sore belly. Oh, how long would this last? She'd changed her diet, taken some medicine, though she was careful not to over-medicate... There were only so many options available to someone who wasn't educated in the medicinal ways.

She wasn't especially religious, being a skeptic and all, but she prayed every so often mostly out of rhetoric. More so in recent days and with increasing enthusiasm.

"Oh God... What's wrong with me?" she questioned oratorically. Questions were almost never answered. But requests sometimes were. "Please remove this sickness from me. I can't bear it any longer..."

She panted after her ordeal, hoping that God would answer her prayer. When she looked up, she went stiff.

There, on top of her dresser sat an object. It was small, but large enough to be noticed; a small glass container of an eerily familiar red liquid. The thick crimson left little in her mind what it could be. After all, there was only one liquid of that color and consistency in the inn at all, and it was locked securely in the cellar below her.

It was not the first time she'd considered perhaps taking a small drip of the miraculous fluid. She'd seen how it seemed to work, as if like magic, in the bodies of those she attended. Mr. Dunham had said to use the blood to treat the desperate, the sick, and the eager. At this point, she was a golden combination of all three. But was the blood meant for her, or for others only? She wasn't keen on waiting to find out. She set the bucket aside and stood shakily, nearly falling as she steadied herself on the bedpost. When she was sure she was secure enough, she took a step toward her dresser...

...Only to recoil so violently she nearly cracked her hip as she landed on the floor. Her eyes were wide as disks. Her mouth hung ajar. A hand instinctively brought in front of her protectively.

Before her stood a man... A man who hadn't been there a moment before. He stood silently, appraising her as their gazes met. It felt like an eternity before she found her voice. "W-Who are you?!"

He didn't answer. Instead, he took a step forward and leaned down, offering a hand to her. She didn't take it. When he noticed she had no intention of accepting, he withdrew his gloved hand and straightened.

"If thou canst not recognize me for what I am, then thy faculties are in dire need of rejuvenation." His words, eloquent and a bit old fashioned, flowed like milk out of his mouth. In a strange way, the sound alone set her mind at ease in a way she couldn't explain. Though, he was correct; he was the same strange phantom figure that had haunted her home for some time now. He always seemed to be present, yet never there.

But this was the first time she'd had any actual words with him, which made this a unique encounter. Tentatively she spoke, attempting to sit up onto the side of the bed. "You're the ghost." Is wasn't so much of a question as a statement, though if she was wrong on either account she was sure he would be swift to correct her.

He didn't. "Ghost might be putting it a touch trivially, but I am in a way, a phantasmal being," he said. "I suppose ghost is an easy word for you."

"The one who gave me the blood," she pressed, to which he nodded.

"And with which you have been putting to good use," he affirmed, referring to her previous patients.

She nodded blankly. If course she was. Once she learned it could easily heal others like magic, she had difficulty convincing herself that it wasn't necessary for every situation. "That blood... what is it exactly?"

She wasn't sure how long this conversation would last, so she intended to utilize every vivid moment of it. The man gave her a queer look that spoke more than words could. Blood. Obviously. She felt stupid for even asking such a simple question. "What about it makes it capable of healing men so quickly?"

At that, the man's eyes twinkled. Perhaps in approval, perhaps not, but it was almost literal from her position. Once again, he held his hand out for her which she tentatively accepted. He lifted her to her feet and sat her on the side of the bed. "It's mine."

She blinked at his words. "E...Excuse me?"

A narrow grin shifted his mask as he reached over and plucked the small jar from the top of her dresser. The thick fluid sloshed sickeningly within the glass container. He didn't repeat himself as he looked from it back toward her. "Rather, more concerning is thy condition," he said dismissively as he stood close to her. Uncomfortably close.

She was taken aback at his words, and she recoiled uncertainly. "...My condition?" she parroted, wondering if either he knew the cause, the result or the cure. Or perhaps all three, she hoped.

"It is not a disease," he clarified as his eyes bored into her in a way that produced a notable discomfort in her skull. With a single finger, he reached down and pointed to the base of her belly.

"It is me."

And like a fever dream he was gone.

Once she recovered from the shock, her mind reeling and unable to process what had just happened, she would note that the jar of blood sat on her nightstand, the lid now removed. The glass had changed shape from a bottle to a cup. She would consider the implications of it's new appearance. Consider, and hope she was wrong.

* * *

 **A/N: And there we have it, chapter two finished! Man I'm really feeling my groove in this story and I can't wait to post more for you all! Let me know what you think in the comments below and feel free to ask questions, as I'm sure you have many. I'll answers all questions in kind!**

 **Until next time!**


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